


moment's silence

by soyicedcoffee



Series: come on mess me up [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Other, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22477144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyicedcoffee/pseuds/soyicedcoffee
Summary: i wrote this instead of being in therapy :-)
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s)
Series: come on mess me up [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617181
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	moment's silence

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of being in therapy :-)

“What are we going to do without you this week, Andrew?” Elizabeth says, holding a baby carrot in her long, sparkly nails.

I’m eating a sandwich and I pause mid-bite, wracking my brain. Did he mention that he was going away for a week, and I just missed it? Some sort of IT conference, maybe, that he mentioned so long ago that it faded from my mind?

“Ooh,” says Alex, clapping his hands together. “Your sister’s wedding, right?”

“Oh, you’ll manage,” he says. He shifts a little in his seat, embarrassed by the attention. He looks at me then, briefly, from the corner of his eye, then looks away just as quickly. “And Clara from the 14th floor will be around to help out if anything goes terribly wrong.” He laughs, stilted and uncomfortable.

I had known, of course, that his sister was getting married. He talked about it often, always with a proud, pleased look in his eyes. I hadn’t known, however, that it was happening so soon, or that he’d be taking a full week’s vacation for it.

The lunch room launches into a discussion of the wedding – the venue, the bride and groom, the food. Alex is engaged to his boyfriend and is intent to hear all the details of any wedding, even from our coworkers who have been married for 20 years, or those who have recently attended the wedding of a second cousin, or a friend of a friend.

Alex is pressing Andrew on the details of the groom’s suit (a topic Andrew clearly knows little or nothing about – a fact which doesn’t seem to deter Alex in the slightest) when I start to feel claustrophobic, overwhelmed with the light and smell and noise. When I can’t take it anymore, I stand up and crumple the paper wrapping around my half-eaten sandwich and drop it in the bin on the way out.

When I make it back to the cool, dim quiet of my office, I let out a sigh of relief. I hate eating in the break room, but I force myself to do it a couple of times a week so I don’t look completely unfriendly. But I have to admit, it’s not just the assaultive environment of the break room that’s bothering me.

_He doesn’t have to tell you everything,_ I think to myself. That much is true. He doesn’t have to tell me _anything,_ really. We’re not dating. We’re friends with benefits, at the very most. Sure, we hang out a lot. Like last weekend, when we went to the farmer’s market on a cool Saturday morning, browsing the stalls, laughing and trying little pieces of food on toothpicks. But that doesn’t mean anything, really.

I put all those thoughts to bed and get back to work. There’s always plenty to do on a Friday afternoon, and today is no exception. By the time Amy gets back into our office at 1:30, I’m thoroughly engrossed in work.

It’s after 4 when I’m pulled away from my computer by a knock at the door. I blink and pull out my earbuds, swivelling towards the sound, and it’s him standing there. I blink again, surprised to see him. We rarely talk during work hours, unless I have a pressing IT problem, which I usually don’t (I know how to turn things off and on again). It occurs to me that he must be here to help Amy with something, and I’m just about to turn and get her attention when he speaks.

“Can I talk to you?” His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his shoulders look all bunched and tense.

“Um,” I hesitate, glancing back at my monitor, “I’m actually kind of busy right now.”

Amy coughs, wordlessly calling me on my bullshit, and I resist the urge to turn and glare at her.

“Ah,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “Okay.”

It’s a lie. I’m not any busier than usual, and I’ve finished everything I needed to get done before the weekend. _Why are you avoiding him???_ my brain screams.

“Actually, it’s okay. Sure,” I say, and I stand up and follow him into the hallway. My heart is beating fast, and I don’t know if I’m angry or upset, but I know I have no right to be either. I take a deep breath.

“I…” he trails off, looking away, at some point above my left shoulder. He looks miserable, discomfort coming off of him in waves. “I should have told you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” is my automatic response, and I know it sounds curter than I intend, especially when he frowns. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Nobody has to tell anyone anything,” he responds. I almost say _I don’t understand what you mean,_ but I think I do understand. “But I-“

“I mean, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter.” I want to ask why he didn’t tell me, but something’s stopping me. I don’t want to seem as invested in him as I am. I don’t want to seem whiny or annoying or clingy. And, more than anything, I don’t want to hear what I’m in that moment sure the answer is – _I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d expect an invitation, and I didn’t want to feel awkward about not wanting you there._ So I just don’t ask.

Was he planning on telling me before he left? Or was he going to take off for a week without telling me anything at all? The thought makes my eyes fill up with tears for some reason and I _can’t_ cry right now, but I can feel my cheeks heating up and my vision blurring. I pinch the back of my hand hard, trying to distract myself from the lump in my throat.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say again, but my voice sounds thick and strange, and he’s looking at me intently, worried. I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. I only open them when I know I have myself under control. “I really have to get back to work,” I say, attempting a smile. “I’ll see you when you get back, though? If you want.”

I’m already halfway back into my office when I hear his soft, bewildered _okay,_ and I shut the office door behind me.

I spend the weekend alone, feeling wretched. I think I might be coming down with something, and I start taking Dayquil and eating bowl after bowl of spicy, brothy soup that makes my nose run from the Vietnamese restaurant down the street from my apartment building.

He doesn’t text me over the weekend, or for the rest of the week. I feel miserable, and I know I look it. I tell anyone who asks that I think I have the beginnings of a flu, which results in sympathetic grimaces and people keeping their distance, which is perfectly fine by me.

It’s not that I can’t live without him, or anything stupid like that. Obviously not. It’s not even that I care that he’s not texting me, that he hasn’t tried to get in touch. He’s obviously busy, as his role in the wedding, from what he’s said, seems to be rather elaborate and involved. But I can’t seem to logic away the sad, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Wednesday evening, Amy drags me out for dinner, despite my protests, and we chat about work, mostly. And then, as we’re having coffee and waiting for the bills, she finally brings it up.

“So, Andrew’s away this week?” She says, raising a perfect dark eyebrow in question.

I had more than an inkling that Amy knew about us. I’m not sure how she figured it out, but I can tell from the smirking look on her face whenever I mention him that she knows something’s going on. It doesn’t really bother me that much. She’s a good friend. But her actually bringing it up makes me feel acutely embarrassed – am I that obvious? Does everyone know?

“Ah, yeah, I guess so,” I mumble, rubbing my finger along the rim of my mug anxiously.

“And you didn’t know?”

I shrug.

“I saw you in the break room when Elizabeth brought it up,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee with the smug air of someone who knows things about you that not even you yourself aren’t aware of. “You looked surprised.”

“I guess I was,” I say evasively. “It’s none of my business though, really.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes a little. “It is though, isn’t it? If you’re together. Was he just going to take off for a week without telling you?”

I hope my face isn’t giving away the fact that I’d wondered that exact same thing. “We’re not together,” I say, which sounds sadder than I expect when I say it out loud.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she says.

“I’m not lying,” I say, and my voice comes out gruff. I clear my throat before continuing. “I mean, we’re just friends with benefits or whatever.”

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “I thought you were like… _together_ together.”

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that.” I laugh, humourless. “And here I thought we were being subtle.”

“Well, I’m very perceptive,” she says, smiling. “Did you ask why he didn’t tell you?” I shake my head. “You should ask, then. Talk to him when he gets back.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

“Can I hug you?” Amy asks as we’re parting ways. I nod my assent, and she hugs me tightly. It’s uncomfortable, but nice too, and I try to lean into the feeling. “Promise me you’ll talk to him,” she says into my ear. “It seems like you two are good for each other,” she says. “And I know you probably doubt it sometimes, but he really likes you. I can tell.”

I nod against her shoulder, and when she pulls away she’s smiling, satisfied.

Friday night and I’m stationed on the couch, watching a movie I’ve seen a million times before, when the doorbell rings.

I sit frozen. I hate unexpected visitors. I hate answering the door. I hate awkward conversations with political representatives and door-to-door sales people. I look at my phone and see that it’s 9:30. A bit late for someone trying to sell something or Mormons trying to spread the good word. The bell rings again, and I relent. I’m wearing a threadbare t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs with a lobster print. I straighten my shirt self-consciously, but it makes no real difference.

I open the door a little, just a crack, and it’s Andrew; all 6’3” of him in soft looking jeans and a hoodie, carrying an overlarge duffel bag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, and I move aside, opening the door wide to let him in. He drops his bag on the floor, and it lands with a heavy thud. “How are you?”

“Did you just get off the plane?” I ask incredulously, ignoring his question. He smiles a little. He smiles at me like that a lot, and I think it’s usually when he thinks I’m being rude or abrupt, like the first time he stayed over at my place, and when he woke up and padded into the kitchen, my first words were, _God, you’re not a breakfast person, are you?_ And he looked at me like the fact that my kitchen wasn’t even stocked with dry cereal was terribly endearing. _Just coffee is fine,_ he’d murmured, smiling so that I could see the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, and I lead him into the living room. “I wanted to talk to you.” He sits down heavily on the sofa, and for a second I let myself love the sight of him there, in my apartment, on my old ratty green couch. “Sicario?” he asks, smiling, and I grab the remote to turn off the TV.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favourites,” I say, clicking the power button and setting the remote on the coffee table.

“I know.”

“So, how was the wedding? Get lucky with any bridesmaids?” I try to play it off as smooth, joking, but I sound as insecure as I feel. I know I’ve struck a nerve, because he frowns, eyebrows knitting together. He looks more troubled than angry. Or maybe annoyed? I can’t tell.

“No,” he says, sounding irritated. “Of course not.” He sighs. “Will you let me explain everything?”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” I say, and I half mean it. He ignores me.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says. “I wanted to tell you for such a long time, but I kept putting it off, and then one day it was too late to say anything.” I open my mouth to speak, but he starts talking again before I can figure out what I want to say.

“My parents are good people, but as I’ve told you, they’re quite… conservative. About some things,” I nod. “And I knew that if I brought you as my plus one there would be a lot of questions, and I’d have to ask my parents and family to be respectful, and use the right pronouns for you, and everything. And I just… wasn’t ready. And I couldn’t have put you through that when I wasn’t ready to…” He trails off, frustrated, but I can’t tell if it’s with me or himself or the whole situation. “And even if I _had_ explained everything, I’m sure they still would have asked you a million uncomfortable questions, or acted weird around you, and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. But I’m just making excuses now.”

“It’s okay,” I finally say. “I understand. I wouldn’t ask you to do all that.” I reach out and put a hand on his arm, an attempt at comfort.

“It’s not okay, though. I know… I know you’ve never met the family of someone you’re with.” I cringe a little, thinking back to when I told him that – lying in bed, all loose and open from the joint we’d shared on my porch. As soon as I said it, I regretted it, ashamed of how self-pitying it sounded. But he’d just given me this long, sad look, and squeezed my hand. “And I hate that I’m just another one of those people.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have even expected an invitation,” I say. “I mean, we’re not even...” I shake my head, words stuck in my throat.

“I wanted you there,” he says. “More than anything. I kept thinking I’d be brave enough to just invite you, then I’d have no choice but to talk to my family and tell them about you. And I want that, still. I told my sister about you this week,” he laughs a little, “I told her everything. How much I wished I had invited you, and how ashamed I was for lying.”

We sit in silence for a long time. I don’t know how long – minutes, maybe. He’s giving me time to process, I realize, not pushing me for a response, wordlessly giving me permission to think, looking at me in this soft, undemanding, vulnerable way.

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” I say, and he looks away guiltily. “You really don’t. I mean… telling your parents about me is basically like coming out, right? And I would never push you to do that. I don’t feel hurt that you weren’t ready. And I wouldn’t want you to bring me if you weren’t ready to be proud to be with me.”

He nods. “I know,” he says, looking down at his lap, voice choked. “I’m sorry.”

The realization that he’s crying hits me like a ton of bricks, and I go over to him, trying to control my panic response, and climb into his lap. “Hey, it’s okay,” I say, and I brush his hair through with my fingers, and wipe away a stray tear on his cheek with my thumb. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quietly, putting his hand over mine on his cheek. We’re close, face to face, and it’s strikingly intimate. He leans forward a little, pressing our foreheads together. His eyes are closed, but mine are open, and his dark eyelashes are all wet and clumped. “I want that with you, though.”

“What?” I ask, breathless from our proximity.

“I mean, I want all of it. I want to know each other’s families. And go on dates. I want to be with you.”

“Oh,” I say. Even though it’s basically an extension of what we’ve been talking about this whole time, I’m still unaccountably surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says earnestly, leaning back to look into my eyes.

“You want to be like… _together_ together.”

“Mhmm. Facebook official,” he says, laughter in his voice.

“I don’t have Facebook,” I state, because it’s true, and he breaks into that sweet, endeared smile.

“It’s just an expression, love,” he says fondly, tangling our fingers together between us. “Do you want that?” He looks hopeful and nervous, and it makes my heart do weird things in my chest. “It’s okay either way. I know this probably isn’t what you were looking for...”

“Yes,” I say, and it’s only as I’m saying it that I realize how much I mean it, and how much the idea doesn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. “Okay. We should do that.”

A broad smile lights up his face. “Really?”

“Did you think I’d say no?” I ask.

“I had no fucking idea, to be honest,” he says, laughing. He leans in and kisses me, just the gentlest press of our lips together, and it occurs to me that it’s the first time we’ve kissed while we’re both (relatively) fully clothed. He pulls me in closer, so his face is buried in my neck, and he noses along my throat, making me shiver. “I thought it was so obvious,” he says into the base of my throat, “that I wanted us to be together. And I was wondering why you didn’t realize – I thought maybe you didn’t want me back. But then I realized maybe it wasn’t obvious, not to you.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, plaintive. “I swear, I had no idea.”

“I know, baby,” he says, mouth hot against my ear, and I can’t suppress a little noise at the back of my throat. “I know.”

He kisses me again, and we make out for a while, all hot and slow, mouths sliding, tongues curling together. It doesn’t take long for him to get hard, and when I grind down against him he bucks his hips up. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says against my mouth, and his hands are all over me, gripping at my thighs and stroking up my rib cage. I’m not wearing my binder and I notice how careful he is to avoid my chest.

“Me too,” I say. When I grind down against him again, he lets out this broken moan that makes me feel like I’m on fire. I do it again and again, until we’re dry humping like teenagers, breathing heavily, and I’ve soaked a sizable wet patch through the front of my briefs.

His hands drift down from my torso to the front of my underwear, and he curses. “Christ, you’re so wet,” he says. “Can I eat you out?”

“Can we just do this?” I say. He gives me a long look, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “I want that, I’m just not ready,” I clarify, an attempt at vulnerability, and he looks placated, recognizing the admission as the concession that it is.

“Of course,” he says, and he links our fingers together and squeezes my hand tight, and it’s somehow just as intimate as everything else. “Can you get off like this?”

“Yes,” I say, smirking. “Can you?” I stop thrusting and just grind down on his hard cock, chasing the friction that’s burning me up from the inside out.

He leans his head back against the back of the couch, and his face is flushed a stunning pink. He looks up at me through half-lidded eyes and shakes his head minutely. “I don’t think so.”

“I guess you’ll just have to wait, then,” I say, and I lean forward and kiss him, biting his bottom lip hard. “Is that okay with you?”

He nods and pulls me close again, so our bodies are flush against each other, and I can feel his heart thumping in tandem with mine. “You don’t mind if I use you?” I ask.

“You know I don’t,” he murmurs. He thrusts his hips, but I know there’s only so much friction he can get with his jeans still on, and he lets out a frustrated groan. The fact of him beneath me, helpless, has me almost desperate with want, and it doesn’t take long before I’m close to my release, cursing feverishly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I’m so close. I rarely get off when we’re together, and he’s looking at me with this wondrous, focused expression that would completely embarrass me if I weren’t about to come. “Just kiss me, please,” I somehow force out, even though I feel like I’ve completely lost control of my words.

All it takes is his mouth on mine and I’m coming, convulsing in his lap, making noises I know I might later regret not muffling against his shoulder. My mind goes completely blank, an etch-a-sketch shaken hard, an endless expanse of white noise, and I can’t even pretend to myself that it’s not a million times better than getting off alone. He kisses my neck softly as I come down, panting. I wonder how I must look to him – sheen of sweat, cheeks the burnt, rosacea red they always take on post-orgasm. I wait for the embarrassment, or shame, or need to escape to hit me, but the way he’s looking at me leaves no room for it.

“Thank you,” he says, smoothing a hand over my cropped hair in a way that makes me lean into it like a cat. “For letting me see you like that.”

My instinct is to protest, but instead I just let the words rush over me. Whatever chemicals that orgasm deposited into my brain have made me dopey and pliant.

“What do you want?” I ask him, sliding my hand to the front of his pants and slipping the leather through the clasp of his belt buckle.

His eyebrows draw together, confused. “Whatever you want,” he says. He says it with unquestioning conviction, and it makes something jolt low in my stomach, even though I just got off.

“Mm-mm,” I shake my head. “You were so good for me, letting me use you like that,” I pop the button on his jeans and start undoing his fly. I watch his eyes slide shut, and I don’t know if it’s from the contact or the praise. “I want you to tell me what you want. What would feel best.”

“I…” he hesitates for a long moment. “Your mouth. I want you to suck me off,” he says, softly grazing my bottom lip with his thumb.

I nod and slide off the couch and onto my knees. When I finally get his cock out it’s hard and leaking pre-come. “Now who’s the one who’s wet?” I ask, and instead of getting my mouth on him I lightly bite him on the exposed skin of his upper thigh. He breathes in sharply – at the teasing or the biting or both – and rests a hand on my head, not guiding me or pushing me, just a gentle pressure.

I know I’m not terribly good at this, and when I start off I’m always shy and nervous, but he’s so vocal and encouraging it quells my anxiety. “Fuck yes, babe,” he breathes. “That’s so good. You’re so good.”

The praise does something to me, and I find myself angling for more, bobbing my head and taking him down deeper, breathing heavily through my nose. It strikes me how an act that I’d always considered uncomfortable for me, verging on degrading, could be so intimate and sensual with him.

“Please, please don’t stop,” he pleads, and from the way his words are spilling out I know he’s close. He jolts his hips and the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat, and I try hard not to gag, breathing hard through my nose. “Sorry,” he says brokenly. “Sorry, love.”

The pet name does something to me, and I abruptly feel like my internal organs have been rearranged, or my heart has been flipped inside out, or something else similarly drastic has happened internally that’s not visible to anyone else. When he tries to warn me to pull off, I look up at him, making eye contact, and take him as deep as I can. He comes with a muffled shout, hand white-knuckled on the armrest.

When he pulls me back onto his lap, I don’t know if he’ll want to kiss me, but he does, long and deep and slow.


End file.
